Wildfire
by raynietheelf
Summary: What if Deidara was there to witness the battle of Blackwater?


A/N: I was trying to describe wildfire to my friend. She's a Narutard. This is what became of the conversation we had.

* * *

Deidara looked up, breath leaving his body. The bells were tolling. There was only one thing this meant. _Stannis is here. _The soldiers were all running around on the ground below, orders carrying themselves on the night air. Funny thing was, it had been so still just minutes ago. He chuckled at the irony of it all. Any moment now, these soldiers, so inanimate only moments ago, were so full of life.

"Deidara! Come here, boy!"

_The Maester. _He scurried down the ladder leading from his bedroom, if you could call it that, and searched for the Maester. The old man was already sitting at the table waiting for Deidara to write for him.

"Yes, Maester Don?"

"Just tell them that Stannis' fleet has arrived," the old man croaked, but Deidara was ahead of him. He had attached the parchments to the birds before the last moaning gasp of the Maester's sentence had been uttered. With a flutter, leaving behind a few scattered feathers, Deidara tossed them out the window and watched them disappear into the black sky.

Before the Maester asked anything else of him, Deidara sprinted down the winding stairs. He'd never seen battle before, being a low-born second son. His father had been a stone mason who noticed his son had an affinity for fire and art and maester-ly things at a young age. Deidara had been shipped off the day he turned seven, for training, and hadn't seen his father since.

It was true. Ever since he was young, Deidara enjoyed beauty in all it's different forms. It was just that his favorite form of beauty came in the flammable variety. Always punished for setting things on fire, he couldn't understand why people didn't enjoy the beauty of the flames the way he did. One day, he was running an errand for the Maester when he'd overheard a stable boy and a servant girl whispering. _Stannis is coming, _one said. _He's bringing a red goddess, I heard. _The other whispered back, _I heard she worships fire. _The servant girl hushed the boy and peeked over at Deidara, who hung his head in an attempt to pretend he wasn't completely eaves dropping. _Worse yet, I heard she is fire._

He threw the door open and pushed his way through the masses. There were so many people, all clamoring to leave. It was going to take him forever to reach the wall if this continued. But he really wanted to see the battle. Earlier, he'd heard a rumor from one of the servant girls that the pyromancers had been involved. It was a life dream of Deidara's to become a pyromancer. Making fire was a passion of his, but the pyromancers did more than just that. They made _wildfire. _All his life, he'd heard tales of the wildfire, green and evil, said to burn hotter than even the breath of mighty Balerion the Dread, and here was his chance to see if it was real. His momentum carried him into one of the soldiers.

"Watch it, boy," the man snarled. This soldier wouldn't stand in the way of Deidara and his fire. Dodging the wild punch the soldier threw, Deidara thrust his palm up, into the man's nose, breaking it. The man dropped and Deidara walked away, but came back. He turned over the groaning soldier, pulling a dagger out of the man's belt.

"In case I need it," he whispered, taking off once more. The wall was getting closer now. Deidara's heart raced, probably due to the amount of sprinting he'd been doing, running for almost twenty minutes straight had that effect, but he was excited, none the less. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the king's red and gold armor, perched there at the top of the wall.

The solders here seemed too nervous to care that a simple servant boy was running around wielding a dagger. The only one's who gave him any trouble were the one's who blocked the stairs leading to the wall. Deidara wasn't having any of that; he'd come too far, too close, to his dream of seeing wildfire up close. Baring his teeth, dagger gripped tightly in his right hand, he flicked it forward, just like he'd practiced. The dagger found it's home in the gap of the now dead man's helmet. The others looked too shocked to really care.

"You're the worst soldiers ever," Deidara scoffed.

"Ay, mate, but a quick death here is better than that damn fire."

"So it's true? Have they let it loose yet? Hmm?" The soldier shook his head, before letting out a grim laugh.

" Listen, boy. Do you hear any screams? There's your answer." The man moved out of the way, allowing Deidara access to the stairs that would lead him to the wall where the Hand and the King stood.

"Thank you," Deidara said, turning to face the man before leaving. He was crouched over his dead comrade's body, rifling through the coin purse.

The soldier scoffed. "I don't know why you need to see that mess so badly, but forget you saw me here. I have a family. I can't die here." Deidara nodded and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He was quite out of breath when he reached the top. There they stood. The King and his men. The Dwarf held a torch in his hand, almost shadowed by the Hound, the King standing between the two grossly mismatched men.

"Where is our fleet? Why is there only one ship?" The King's voice cut through the air, sharper than the archer's arrows. The Imp made some remark to answer. Deidara cringed. He'd only met the boy King once, running an errand with Maester Don. They were begging for more apprentices, a task Deidara utterly despised. The King had scoffed and ordered his guards to forcefully eject them from the castle. Later that night, as Deidara nursed a broken wrist, the Maester scolded him for fighting back. Without Deidara, who would write the letters. He'd been whipped for answering back "Isn't that what the damn Maester is for?"

The Hand of the King looked at Deidara panting at the top of the stairs.

"Boy, why are you here?"

"I just wanted to see it. The battle."

Tyrion looked him up and down. "How did you get past the guards?"

"I asked nicely." He grinned. Tyrion raised his eyebrows.

"Alright boy, but I don't know how much you'll enjoy the view."

Deidara took his place, to the right of the fearsome Hound, Sandor Clegane. Any other day, Deidara would have been nervous, but not today. He held his breath.

"Hold your arrows," Tyrion called. They all waited in silence. Tyrion threw the torch over the wall. Deidara followed it's path down, until another glimmer of light caugh his eye. Further out into the bay, a lone fire arrow traced a path to the single ship, no boat, that was trekking its way towards Stannis' endless fleet. Time seemed to slow as the arrow momentarily went out. He didn't have the time to formulate another thought.

Boom!

The green fire scattered across the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay. The fleet was all on fire, everything was bathed in an unholy green light. It was horrible and beautiful. Everything Deidara had ever wanted. His mouth formed an 'o' as the sound of dying men reached his ears. Tyrion took notice of this.

"Was it what you thought it was going to be, boy?"

Deidara shook his head. "It was more. Oh, my lord, it was perfect," he whispered in awe. Sandor growled.

"There are men down there, still waiting to be killed?" His scars glowed horribly in the dim light. They looked grotesque, twisted and lumpy. A harsh contrast to the beauty of the dancing flames.

"Well, get to it, dog!" the King ordered. He looked pale, ready to pass out. All the men were reacting in different ways. The pyromancers were the only ones who looked as excited as Deidara did. They were regarding him with interest.

"You like that, boy?"

"Of course. You didn't?"

"You'd make a good pyromancer."

"I know I would. I've always wanted to be one, you know." He would. If the bloody Maester wasn't half blind, maybe he'd send Deidara off to the pyromancers.

"Maybe after battle," Tyrion interrupted. "Schedule your dates later. I have a city to defend." In a flourish of red and gold, the soldiers trickled down the stairs, to defend the bay. The archers and the pyromancers stayed.

"Oh, and boy," Tyrion called, as an after thought. "I'll make sure you get to be a pyromancer."

"My lord," Deidara answered. "My name isn't boy. It's Deidara. I am going to become the best pyromancer. You'll see. I'll live on, in history" Tyrion just laughed.

"Ambition. I like that. We'll see, boy."

"Deidara. Remember that. Deidara, the pyromancer."

In all the battles he'd ever fought in, Blackwater was always the one that stuck out to him. Deidara had seen all sorts of fires: dragon fire, celebratory bon fire, the fires that kept the white walkers at bay. None of them were half as enchanting as the wildfire that he'd seen as a youth. After fleeing King's Landing, he'd figured out how to make the wildfire without the help of the other pyromancers. He became a sort of terrorist, selling the fire to the highest bidder, all until Daenerys Targaryen came along with her dragons.

Fighting for no one had it's benefits, but at the same time, no one fought for you. In the final push for King's Landing, the place he hadn't stepped foot in in almost fifteen years, Deidara looked around and saw that unless something ridiculously drastic was done, there was no way Daenerys was going to defeat all the Lannister men, and the Stormcloaks.

In a moment of epic, heroic glory, Deidara doused himself in the wildfire that he loved so very much and jumped down, into the Lannister camp, lighting everything on fire and causing enough damage to them that Queen Daenerys was able to swoop in and take her throne.

In the end, he'd done what he'd always dreamed of: becoming the most infamous pyromancer that ever lived. He'd become the pyromancer who won the crown for the Silver Queen, the one who lived on in history.

* * *

See? I think Deidara would have probably jizzed himself if someone was like "Look at this!" and showed him clips of the Blackwater burning, but that wasn't very poetic. I tried to give him a quick back story. Well, hope you enjoyed. Reviews appreciated as always!


End file.
